Excerpts from Arkham
by Amara Anon
Summary: Thomas Schiff has never been his own boss. But separated from his beloved boss the Joker while locked up in Arkham Asylum, Schiff is very much on his own, until a familiar face shows up as his new cellmate, sharing a grudge against Dr. Quinzel. Can the psychotic pair escape Arkham? Written as Schiff's journal. Pre-The Dark Knight Rises, No Spoilers. Rated for language/violence.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This fic will be 4 chapters long and has already been completed, so updates will be quick. Originally written for the Nolanverse Challenge "Why Do We Fall?" Theme at Batfic_Contest on Livejournal, now revised. Thank you for reading.

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**Excerpts from Arkham**

_Excerpts from the journal of Thomas Schiff, Arkham Inmate #230446, written over a 6-year period._

Green beans for lunch today. 1 slab of chewy meat in a brown sauce – Couldn't tell what it was. Apple sauce with the usual pills crushed in. They taste like cinnamon.

God knows how long it's been since I picked up a pencil. Dr. Quinzel said that keeping a journal will help in my rehabilitation. She isn't even making me read this to her – Only share what I want to. So I feel okay writing that she has way too big a rack to be wearing a blouse that low. No wonder half the kooks have the hots for her – or at least pretend that they do. Personally I think she's trying too hard – like she likes the attention. You'd have to be one crazy broad to want the attention of the crackpots in here.

Couldn't eat the green beans today. They reminded me of the Boss. Wondering where he is. If he's okay without me. When he'll make his escape and take me with him.

They keep him in another wing of the Asylum. In Solitary. Don't know where that is. Don't think I could find him. One of the big guards is blond and gives me the creeps – reminds me of Dent. Get the shakes just passing by him to the cafeteria.

I sent a thought to the Boss last night. I was thinking it really hard so it would make it through the walls of my cage. I told him I was sorry but I was helpless to save him and he'll have to find a way out on his own. I told him I was waiting for him and to please come get me. I think he heard me. I know he did.

Half the cells are filled with us, it seems, his henchmen. They can't hold us in here forever. Not even the Batman. Nightly I hear the screams of my comrades, calling for freedom. The guards are getting antsy – even the Blond seems nervous at times – like they all know it's a joke. One big joke the Boss started telling a long time ago and soon the punchline's gonna come and we'll be the last ones laughing.

Maybe Dr. Quinzel was right. I do feel a little better writing this down. Less lonely at least. Can't talk to my cellmate. Can't stand him. He's always bitching at me when I sing. Guess you're my only friend, Journal, till the Boss comes to get me.

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Baked potato burned the roof of my mouth at lunch. Carrots piled in a mucous gel. Special surprise for desert – strawberry shortcake. We never get strawberry shortcake.

Bigger surprise just after Lights Out last night. I was lying on my bunk staring up at the cot above me. Kicking it with my foot to the tune of "Hush, Little Baby" sung in my beautiful tenor. Zsaz used to hate it when I did that. He'd poke his head down and curse and spit at me and tell me I was a goddam bastard with screws loose in my head. Then he would go on and on ranting about that "sonovabitch quack" that got him holed up in Arkham in the first place – prison would have been better than this – and how one of these days he was gonna take him the fuck out. He was always ranting about that. Usually I'd let Zsaz rave on uninterrupted but that ugly bastard was really starting to get on my nerves, so last time he went at it I pounded the springs above me with both feet so hard Zsaz fell over onto the concrete. Then he broke my nose. The guards came and took him away a screaming cussing mess and I haven't seen him since. Last I heard, he attacked a nurse and got himself locked up in Solitary. My nose grew back crooked. Only thing I regret about getting rid of Zsaz. I hope the Boss still recognizes me when he comes to free me. Oh God what if he takes one look at my crooked face and is so disgusted he leaves me here all alone? Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with the thought of it and feel the tears streaming down my face, down my busted beak.

Anyway, like I said, it was after Lights Out and I was singing "Hush, Little Baby" and lying in the dark, kicking the cot above me as hard as I liked, picturing Zsaz was still up there helpless to do anything about it. The old springs above were squeaking loudly as I kicked them, and I was halfway through the verse "Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird…" when I heard the buzz of the keycard being used to open my creaky cage door. It was completely dark in my cell, and I could only see the outline of the two figures standing in the doorway. One was big and bulky and I recognized him as the Blond Guard. I admit, I panicked at the thought of him coming in here. I swept my feet down quickly, keeping them as tight to the mattress as possible, hoping he hadn't heard me making a disturbance. I sent him a thought as strong as I could that I was good that I wasn't doing anything wrong and please don't shoot me I was just following orders. The second outline was slightly taller than him and much lankier. I heard the crack of handcuffs being undone – the lanky figure started rubbing his wrists and the Blond barked he didn't want any trouble out of him. Then he barked at me that the asylum was full up and they'd had to place my roommate on short notice and he trusted I'd get along better with him than my last one – or else. "Yeah, you two are gonna be real good pals, you hear?" he threatened. Then the door swung shut with a rusty clang that cut the silence and here was I, trapped in my cage with an Intruder. One it was too dark to see clearly.

For a split second my heart leapt at the possibility that it was him – the Boss – that we'd been reunited at last. That somehow for some reason he'd got a transfer – maybe time out of Solitary for Good Behavior.

But then I heard the voice, that sweetly sarcastic, mocking voice that I only knew too well, even though it'd been a long, long time since I heard it.

"And if that mockingbird don't siiiiiiing…" the Intruder crooned, continuing the verse from where I'd left off, lifting his arms up for the big crescendo, giving his slightly off-key all to an invisible audience, "Mama's gonna buy you a diiiiiamond riiiiiiiing!"

That's when I sat straight up in my bed. He was in the middle of giving his bows, muttering phrases like "Please, you're too kind," and "Sorry, I don't do encores," when I worked up the courage to utter his name.

"Doctor Crane?"

Crane's head snapped in my direction and peered at me through the dark. I could feel his gaze piercing me. I could feel it even though I couldn't see it.

"Schiff?" he said finally. "Inmate Number Two-Three-Oh-Four-Four-Six Thomas Schiff? Oh my God – I can't believe of all the cells in all of Arkham, of all my former patients, I end up with you! How's it going, Tommy boy?"

Crane swooped in dangerously close when he said that, shoving his face close to mine. His tone wasn't pleasant. It had that familiar, condescending quality to it. My temples started to sweat, just like they used to back during our sessions. Crane had always liked to interrogate me in a way that made me uncomfortable, too direct – too penetrating. Quinzel was good about keeping her distance. She'd hardly glance up from her chart at me, like I could barely hold her interest – which was great because she barely held mine. Crane was different. Crane was intense. Once, I'd let slip in one of our sessions that the only person who'd ever called me Tommy was my father, and Crane had called me that ever since. He loved tormenting me that way.

Crane's eyes squinted at me, trying desperately to adjust to the near total darkness. Suddenly his hands darted out at my face and I jerked back, trying to remain still as he slid his fingers across the crooked bridge of my nose. "Geez, what happened to your face, Tommy? You try to take on the Batman yourself or something?"

I started to stutter some response, and Crane let out a cruel cackle, so unlike the mellifluous laugh of the Boss.

"Oh please, don't go out of your way for me," he said, "I'll just make myself at home," and he hopped onto the top bunk. I almost felt relieved of his presence, but then I could feel it, seeping towards me through the cot, pressing in on my head, getting in my ears like a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing. I swatted uselessly.

"Long time no see, Tommy. So, how've you been? Still crazy I see. Me too, according to that dumb bimbo the geniuses in this city put in charge. To think what's become of my beloved asylum," Crane sighed.

"Y-you've met Dr. Quinzel?" It was a stupid thing to say, I admit. Of course he had, otherwise he wouldn't be here. What can I say, I panicked.

"Met her? I've fucked her. 'Course, that was years ago. I got out of here once before, you know, legit and everything. Yeah, I had Harleen's little predecessor wrapped around my finger. I said all the right words, did all the right things – I'm a psychiatrist for God's sake, I know how to play the game. So there I was, on the outside, lying low, biding my time. Waiting for someone to give the Batman what he deserves. Maybe I'm not the guy to do it, I know that now. But I thought that other fella, the new guy, that wackadoo, the Joker… now he seemed like he was ready to put out the Batman's lights… before he was stupid enough to get himself locked up here."

"THE BOSS ISN'T STUPID!" I screeched, kicking the cot above with every inch of my strength. Crane went flying and landed with a slap on the concrete.

Instantly all of my courage was gone and I was a quivering ball of fear. I don't know, hearing the Boss insulted like that just got me worked up. I had reacted impulsively. I regretted it now. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears already trickling at the thought of how messed up my nose was going to look now.

A few moments passed, and I opened one eye. Crane was sitting on the floor, rubbing the back of his head.

"Interesting," he said.

"W-what?" I sputtered, terrified of the blow that was sure to come.

"'The Boss,' you said. You called the Joker your boss. Oh Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Is that why you're back in here? They pegged you working for the Joker? I let you and every other nutcase in Arkham out to have the whole run of the Narrows, the whole run of Gotham, and first chance you get you take orders from a guy wearing too much makeup? Looks like someone still has dependency issues."

I didn't have a response to that. Mostly I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that somehow Crane thought he was the one who let everyone out of Arkham. And he had the gall to say I had issues. Last I heard, Crane was just as nutso as everyone else in here.

"So h-how'd you end up in here?" I finally worked up the courage to ask.

"Ah, Quinzel, of course," Crane said, climbing back onto the top bunk. "That bitch has had it out for me for years. She really relished how far I'd fallen, thought it'd be fun to push me down even deeper. She had a warrant cooked up, forced me into an evaluation. I played my part straight, but you can't win a rigged game. Bitch had me committed – said I'm a danger to myself and others. She should talk. That cunt's crazier than all of us. I should know – I dated her. She's got everyone fooled, but I'm telling you, there's a real nut running the nuthouse."

"Like you used to," I blurted. I didn't mean to. It just slipped out. You see how sometimes I have a problem holding my tongue.

But Crane cawed with laughter, and I let myself breathe. "Yeah, like I used to. I tell you, Tommy, if I ever get out of here, I'm going to make Gotham pay…" Then he went on about the big plans he had. I didn't have any plans of my own. That's what the Boss was for. Finally, when a few moments of silence had passed, Crane clapped his hands together once. "So! Are you gonna finish that stupid song of yours or what? Just don't kick the mattress, ever, or I'll bite your crooked fucking nose off."

I laid in stunned silence for a moment before belting into the next verse, the one about the looking glass.

"You always did have a nice singing voice, Tommy…"

I made it through the entire song three times before the soft sound of snoring signaled Crane had fallen asleep.

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**A/N:** In Batman Begins, Victor Zsasz's name is spelled Zsaz instead, so I went with that to stay true to the Nolanverse.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **__After doing some more editing of future chapters, I've decided to split up the final journal entry into two chapters because it was so long. So this fic will be five chapters long instead of four._

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Macaroni and cheese today. Dry cheese – hard macaroni. The noodles crunched under my teeth. I felt like a crow cracking acorns with its beak. Broccoli was soggy. Dessert good at least. Chocolate pudding.

That reminds me of something Dr. Quinzel said yesterday during Group Session. It was the strangest thing. She was making each of us patients talk about our past. She particularly likes trying to torment Jonathan, but he doesn't give her an inch. He simply smiled at her and said, "Oh, I think you know all about my past, Harleen." He refuses to call her Dr. Quinzel in front of the other inmates; she puts up a calm exterior, but I can tell it's really pissing her off. It's an interesting battle of wills – I never know exactly what they're playing at or what really went on between them. I don't really care. Jonathan says that was a lifetime ago.

Anyway, Quinzel was making me talk about the Boss yet again. That seems to be all we talk about nowadays. It's unsettling – all it does is remind me how far away he is. All her questions are about him. Arbitrary stuff, things that I don't see could possibly matter psychologically to me. What he was like before he came to Arkham, what kind of socks did he wear, did he ever entertain any lady friends around his lackeys…. I feel like I've answered these questions a thousand times but she just won't quit it. Her blouse seems to keep getting smaller lately too – Jonathan says pretty soon it'll disappear altogether and we'll all go blind. That always makes me laugh. Jonathan has quite the smirk on his face whenever she interviews me in Group, like he knows something she doesn't.

I admit, Quinzel seemed a bit more unraveled than usual this time. Not quite concealed behind her glasses there were dark circles under her eyes and a frantic desperation in her gaze. Her pencil seemed to shake as she made notes on her chart. But to be honest, I'm not so sure she was making notes. To me it looked more like she was doodling.

"Tell me again, Thomas," she said, her hand scribbling furiously though her eyes never left my face. "Tell me what he was wearing the first day you met – tell me down to the tiniest detail – this is crucial – crucial to your therapy. Do you recall the number of buttons on his vest? The material of his tie, did it look more like silk or satin to you? And when you say Puddin's suit was 'purple' do you mean more of an Eggplant shade or would you call it Byzantium? Here, I got you a color guide!" she said, digging around in her purse and pulling out a pamphlet from Gotham City Home Improvement. "Be as accurate as you can!" she practically screeched, lunging at me to thrust the pamphlet in my hands.

I glanced at Jonathan for help, bewildered. One of the more fragile patients started weeping. Jonathan returned my gaze with a pointed smirk.

Suddenly Quinzel realized her mistake, and tried to compose herself. She sat back in her chair, smoothed down her skirt, pushed the stray hairs back into her once severe-looking bun, now coming undone, cleared her throat and moved on to the next patient without delay.

But I noticed it. Jonathan noticed too. Pudding, she called him. Pudding. She called the Boss – my Boss – pudding, like he was some sort of yummy dessert treat.

It made me feel – I don't know what it made me feel. All day her words wouldn't seem to get out of my head, like a fly caught in a jar, buzzing around and knocking on all sides of the glass.

The fly wouldn't stop buzzing even after Lights Out, when I was staring up at the cot in the dark. I sent Jonathan a message with my thoughts, but he must have been falling asleep because he didn't seem to hear me. So I resorted to asking him out loud.

"Jonathan, you awake?" I said.

"No, what is it?" He didn't sound very amused at being kept up.

"What do you think Dr. Quinzel was getting at, calling the Boss 'pudding'?"

I could almost hear a smirk forming on his face as he answered. "Oh… I have my theories. Best not to trouble your little head about it, Tommy."

That pissed me off. I hate it when he's condescending like that. He's not nearly as bad as he used to be, not to me at least, but there's still something of the smug psychiatrist about him. Sometimes he seems to forget he's one of us now. I guess sometimes I seem to forget it, too. Dr. Quinzel says it's hard to give up old patterns, and occasionally Jonathan and me slip into that old doctor/patient routine. Hell, it took a few months alone before I was able to stop calling him Doctor Crane.

What happened was, one night, I was whispering "Hush, Little Baby" to myself and absentmindedly started kicking the cot above to the beat. After a few springy squeaks, I realized what I was doing and stopped cold, horrified at what I'd done. I'd been kicking Crane right in the back through the mattress. I hurried to plead my case – "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to – honestly, Doctor Crane…" – when suddenly he swooped down and pinned me tight to my mattress, holding my neck down with one arm and with the other clamped long, claw-like fingers over my mouth – hard. I was unable to speak, to defend myself. I couldn't even struggle – he was surprisingly strong for such a wiry guy. The faintest beam of light from under the door revealed a crazed look in his cold, giant blue eyes. I watched as he leaned down to tear my nose off (how was I gonna explain this to the Boss, I thought) – when he bent his head to my ear instead and said in a strangely calm, slightly teasing voice, "It's Jonathan, Tommy." Then he lifted the hand on my mouth away.

"W-what?" I stuttered.

"We're friends now, right? Equals, yeah?" he said, never once loosening his grip on my neck. "I don't want to hear you call me Doctor Crane ever again."

I couldn't speak. I was shocked. I had never been anyone's equal before. It was all I could do to nod my chin as best as I could, and then Jonathan set me free….

"You know what I think your problem is, Tommy?" he said, climbing back up onto his bunk, and I cringed to myself. I could tell where this was going. I could practically hear the psychiatrist-cogs turning in Jonathan's head, analyzing memories of sessions long past. "No one ever treated you like an equal, and so you've never been able to think of yourself as equal to anyone. Your father owned a small business, a restaurant, wasn't it…?"

"Pizza parlor."

"Pizza parlor, right. And what was your job?"

"Delivery boy."

"Delivery boy, now I remember. He sent you out running errands while your brother got groomed as head chef and manager, right? He never put you in the kitchen, never gave you any tools of you own, never let you try to create anything for yourself. And then when he died, he left the place to your brother and gave you nothing. That was a hard moment for you wasn't it, the reading of the will, when you realized he'd left you completely alone and powerless in the world."

I didn't say anything. Sessions with Jonathan were always painful to hear.

"You know, if someone had had a little faith in you, left you something of your own, I don't think you'd be where you are now. I don't think you'd have this obsession, this dependence on the clown. Did you hear me, Tommy?"

"I heard you…" I mumbled, hoping the conversation was over.

"'I heard you,' whooo?" Jonathan tested me.

"I heard you… Jonathan," I said, meekly.

"Good boy, Tommy."

Sometimes I wonder if being Jonathan's equal only gave him more power over me, only made me want his approval more.

Anyway, the pudding incident with Quinzel wasn't something I could leave alone, especially when Jonathan was acting so smugly secretive about it, so last night I kept on pressing the issue.

"Jonathan, do you think Dr. Quinzel has private sessions with – the Boss?"

He didn't even pause to think about it. "Of course. She meets with every loony in Arkham. She has to – I did," he added, somewhat ruefully.

"You don't think he – I mean – he wouldn't go for a girl like that – would he?"

"I did," Jonathan said, incredibly ruefully. "But live and learn, eh, Tommy? I wouldn't worry about your old boss. He won't get caught up in her snares like I did. I read up on the guy – he's a total sociopath. Can't feel an ounce of human empathy. He'll never love anything or anyone."

I was so relieved – Jonathan had made it so clear: The Boss could never love Dr. Quinzel, never ever, ever. The only thing that bugged me was he seemed to think the Boss was my "old" boss, like I wasn't working for him anymore. He didn't understand. I'd never stopped. I never will.

Then Jonathan told me to shut up already and go to sleep.

There was dead silence for a few moments, and then he said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well aren't you going to sing that stupid little song of yours now? Goddam you," Jonathan said, swinging his pillow down to smack me lightly on the side of the head. "You know, I think it's actually getting so that I can't fall asleep peacefully without it. Maybe I really have gone fucking crazy," Jonathan added.

I chuckled softly. Jonathan always knows how to make me laugh.

After I was sure Jonathan had fallen asleep, I stared up into the darkness and made a decision about Dr. Quinzel. I decided that I'm never going to answer any of her questions about the Boss again.

Take that, you stupid bitch.


	3. Chapter 3

Cold pizza at lunch yesterday, crust like cardboard. Fruit salad. The grape was squishy mush. Something called tiramisu. Had the lunch worker spell it out for me. Didn't touch it. Decided it's not worth eating something you can't spell. Jonathan took his napkin and folded a swan for me. He handed it over with a wink. Told me someday it would grow up and fly. Always knows how to make me laugh.

A guard came over as I was playing with the swan. Rolled his eyes at me, then barked at Jonathan, "Crane. Get to the Visitor's Room. You've got company."

My eyes went wide. In all the years that Jonathan had been my cellmate, I had never seen him receive a visitor.

Jonathan was up in a flash. "Wait," I said. "You can't go. You didn't finish your pizza."

"You can have it," he replied, without even glancing at me. "You like pizza, don'tcha , Tommy?" And he let the guard escort him away like I didn't even exist. I watched him walk the entire length of the cafeteria without taking my eyes off him, then stared at the door long after it had closed after him. Finally I had to tear my eyes away, like I'd been staring at the sun too long. I looked down in my lap – the swan had crumbled in my hands, all the folds of the cloth come undone. I hadn't realized I'd been twisting it.

I smoothed the fabric out, folded it meticulously into a tiny square, and placed it on top of my tray. Then I shoved the tray as hard I could across the room. It didn't go very far – it wasn't very aerodynamic – but it landed on the linoleum with a clatter that earned me the wrath of the guards and got me put on Clean Up Duty even though it wasn't my turn.

Two hours later, Jonathan returned to the general population in the Day Room.

I was sitting on a couch, waiting for him. When I saw him, I gave him my angriest glare. I hadn't done a single thing during the entire free period. Turned down two games of checkers, wasn't even paying attention to the TV. A card game was going on in the corner. The fellas had tried to get me to join – one of them was going crazy over the fact that they needed one more player because, as he put it, "A prime number, it has to be a prime number!" – but I wouldn't budge. I was numb to everything around me. Vaguely I saw the other inmates through a mist. Many of them I recognized from work with the Boss – work that took place so long ago. We were so lost without him. So purposeless, so directionless without his guidance. We are the fallen, I thought bitterly. Little birdies trapped in a cage, while people in the world around us get to fly free. What makes them so much more special than us? Why do we fall?

Jonathan came over to me, acting as though nothing was wrong. In fact, he looked like he was on top of the world. "Hey there, grumpypants. What do you wanna do today? I'm feeling lucky," he said, eyeing the poker table. "Let's go clean those guys out." Inside, I was seething. I felt like I was going mad. How dare he try to pretend that nothing had happened? So I asked him point blank.

"Who was that?" I said.

"Who who?"

"Hoo-hoo? What are you, a fucking owl?" I screamed, lunging at him, knocking him down, ripping into him. Immediately the guards separated us, but not before I got a punch in so good it bloodied his nose.

Jonathan could have stopped me from doing it. He's stronger than me. Clearer-headed, too. He could have blocked my moves and messed me up even worse before I knew what hit me. But he let me do it. He let me hurt him.

The guards starting dragging me away, a nurse was running over with a needle in her hand, ready to sedate me, and Jonathan just looked at me, clutching his nose while blood dripped all over the stained, cracked, grey tile. He didn't look angry as he watched me being pulled away, and somehow that hurt me the most. The last thing I remember was how cold and wet my face felt before it all went dark.

When I woke up, it was black, and I couldn't move. I was lying in my cot, it was after Lights Out, and I couldn't see a thing at first until my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then I was able to make out the straps they had secured me with to the bed. I guess Jonathan heard me struggling against them because suddenly he called out from above –

"You fucking idiot…"

Suddenly my memory came boiling to the top of my head and I began struggling at the restraints harder, my anger renewed. Jonathan hopped down from the bunk as genially as could be and leaned over me.

"What, you gonna sock me another one, Tommy? The guards put these on you," he said, picking up the end of one strap, "thinking you might be a danger to me when you woke up. I told them it wasn't necessary."

"You were wrong," I said, straining.

Jonathan laughed. "Tommy, quit it, will you? Geez, don't you get it? I wasn't about to go blabbing about my visitor in the Day Room for all the loonies to hear. This is serious business going on. Don't you understand?"

I responded by spitting in his face. The drool hit him in the forehead and began dribbling down into his right eye. He began to blink slowly, dangerously.

Now he looked pissed. He lunged towards me, grabbed my mouth with his hand and held it shut as tight as could be, breathing heavily on my face. He looked deranged. Any shred of the haughty, superior psychiatrist persona was gone – he was fully playing the part of the psychopath now. Oh God, I thought, he's going to tear my nose off just like he said he would if I ever kicked his mattress. My heart had never beat louder in my life, not even that time Dent held the gun on me. This was going to be much, much messier. Jonathan stared into my eyes viciously, hesitated for only a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. Then without warning he lunged, kissed the back of his hand hard over my mouth and pushed himself away from me.

"You're the only one I can tell about the visitor, Tommy. You're the only kook I trust in this whole loony bin."

I was deflated, numbed, completely and utterly. I couldn't have moved a muscle even if I hadn't been restrained. "Don't you get it?" Jonathan said as he began undoing the straps, seeing that I wasn't going to try to attack him anymore, "I had intended to tell you from the beginning what the deal was as soon as it was Lights Out. I couldn't risk anyone else hearing about this."

I rubbed my arms and sat up. "So what is it? Who came to visit you? I thought your family was dead."

"They are," Jonathan said dismissively with a wave of his hand. "That's not it at all. It was one of my men on the outside."

"One of your…?"

"Spies, Tommy. One of my eyes and ears in the underworld. You think I trust the daytime news channel in the Day Room to tell me what's really going on in Gotham? I'm not a fool, Tommy. I had it arranged all along, if I ever got locked up again, if something big is about to go down, I'm gonna know about it. I'm gonna be ready for it."

I was completely breathless. I had expected – I don't know what I had expected. Not this. When Jonathan had got up to see the visitor, it had felt like he was abandoning me. Suddenly I felt very ashamed for not having trusted him earlier.

"Your nose," I said. "I'm sorry. Back in the Day Room, I punched your nose. Did it… grow back crooked?"

Jonathan laughed. "I don't know, I don't have a mirror. You tell me." He knelt in front of me, took my hand and held it up to his face. "Ow, sore," he said as I traced the bridge with my fingers.

"Sore, but not crooked." I smiled. "Guess I punch lighter than Zsaz. So that's what all the secrecy today was about – information?"

"Well, that, plus I had a little memento snuck in. Bribed a guard to do it, he thought it was harmless. But it'll come in handy – later. The point is you're forgetting something very important."

"What?"

"What kind of information, Tommy! Don't you want to know what I learned today?" Jonathan seemed so excited, so exuberant. I had never seen him like this before. It was all I could do to nod my head.

He sat next to me and leaned close to my ear, whispering the words like they were sinful. "Someone is coming," he said, "someone to challenge the Batman. And if it's who the rumors say it is, maaaaan," Jonathan paused to giggle, "the Bat doesn't stand a chance. Do you get it, now, Tommy? Soon Gotham will be free for the taking." Suddenly Jonathan grabbed me, pulled me to my feet. "And the fallen will rise. Soon, we'll taste freedom again!"

Could it really be true? The prospect was too much, too much for my senses. The world was a blur. I was falling, falling. I could feel Jonathan catch me, or was it the Boss, I couldn't tell anymore, could feel the drug the nurse plunged into me work its way back into my system, could feel it pumping through my heart as the world turned all to darkness and bliss.

* * *

Can't remember what I had for lunch today. Don't remember eating. Don't remember what they served. Don't remember going for lunch.

My mind is a mess, a racing, humming mess. All I can think about is the Boss. When Batman's gone, he'll be free. I know it. And when he's free, he'll come for me. And then the world will burn just like he told me it would. God how I want to watch the world burn.

I didn't hear a word Dr. Quinzel said in Group today. I don't think she heard a word anyone said either. She is quite blatantly a broken woman – completely snapped. Mostly she seems to hum her way through sessions. Her head is in the clouds, and there's a constant, crooked, blissful smile on her face. Jonathan seems particularly pleased to see how batty she's become. Says it's just a matter of time now before she gets hers. He's never forgiven her for committing him, for blocking all his attempts at release. I've never understood how she managed to keep her position. Jonathan says it's obvious – either she, or someone she's got an in with, is holding something over the right people. Says it's actually scary the kind of power she wields. But at this point she's bound to screw up something even the right people won't be able to gloss over. I have no idea what Jonathan's talking about, but I leave him alone when he goes on his little rants where Quinzel is concerned. She's been a sore spot in both of our lives, and I'm content enough just knowing her comeuppance is on the horizon.


	4. Chapter 4

No lunch today.

No cafeteria.

No inmates, no doctors, no nurses.

No Arkham.

Just darkness and the echoing memory, the sound of a river, rushing through my head.

I suppose there's no sense in writing anymore. My therapy is over. But I can't stand the sight of your covers closed forever right now. Too many things closing forever when I don't want them to. Stay open for me a little longer.

Yesterday, it all started out so normal, as normal as it gets in the cuckoo's nest. A voice buzzing over the intercom woke us up in its usual scratchy voice, stinging our ears, dictating our movements – showers, pills, therapy, all in their usual order.

Jonathan and I were sitting in the Day Room with the other crazies, waiting for Dr. Quinzel to enter so Group could start. She wasn't usually this late. In fact, she wasn't ever late. But for some reason, 20 minutes past the designated start time, she still hadn't arrived. I asked Jonathan what he thought could possibly be up, but all he did was shrug. He seemed strangely tense and serious, like his smugness for all matters concerning Quinzel was gone, like he was standing on the edge of a knife. Finally, another doctor arrived, a Dr. Hawkins, a weak, short, elderly man who told us to gather 'round to start the meeting.

"Where's Dr. Quinzel?" one of the inmates called.

To the complete and utter amazement of all in the room, Dr. Hawkins told us that Dr. Quinzel was taking a leave of absence and that he would be taking over in her stead.

"When's she comin' back?"

"That information is not being disclosed at this time, and there will be no further discussion on the matter, thank you very much."

What followed was 30 minutes of uncontrollable twittering between all of the inmates about what possibly could have happened to Dr. Quinzel. Hawkins and the guards tried to quiet the lot, but by the time there was some semblance of order and Hawkins tried to begin the session, the first patient loudly lamented how dismal Hawkins' chest was compared to Quinzel's and that got everybody going again. Finally, at the two-hour mark, Hawkins declared that that was enough work for the day, and good job everyone, we were really making some progress. Everyone dispersed throughout the Day Room, back to their usual games or cards or vegetative states.

Jonathan was unusually tight-lipped. He walked past an inmate calling over to us to join a poker game and headed straight for the arts and crafts table, ignoring the insults the kook started slinging his way. I followed him not unlike a dog follows its master, even though I really would have liked to play cards. It never once occurred to me to join the game without him. Wherever he went, I followed. He navigated the asylum with all the confidence of a pilot in flight. I would have felt lost without him.

There was one lone occupant at the arts and crafts table, sitting there staring blankly and chewing on a dry craft sponge in the shape of a butterfly, meant for paint projects. Jonathan yanked it out of his mouth and threw it across the room. "Fetch," he said. The inmate stumbled after the sponge mindlessly, crying.

"Finally," Jonathan's body language seemed to say as he sat down at the table with authority and began searching, pushing the various crafts items the nurses allowed us to have out of his way, bits of poster board and cotton balls, watercolors and paintbrushes… no glitter, though. Glitter was dangerous. I wanted to speak up so badly, to ask him where Dr. Quinzel was and what was going on, but he was so intent, so deadly serious on his task that I didn't dare utter a sound. Finally Jonathan seemed to find what he was looking for, a square of white origami paper and a box of crayons. I was sitting across from him and he shoved the crayons in my direction without looking up at me. "Hand me your favorite color," he said. I placed a crayon in his hand and he put it onto the paper as though about to write with it, then paused. "Yellow, Tommy?" he said, disgusted, and tossed it over his shoulder. "Yellow is useless." Then he grabbed the crayon box, took out Blue, and began to write. I couldn't see what he writing. It was all upside-down to me anyway, and besides, Jonathan's script is really small and scraggly, like a seagull making scratch marks in the sand. Whatever he was writing, it was long, detailed, and seemed to take forever. He kept pausing to sharpen the crayon. Just when I thought that he was done (there was hardly any room left on the paper), he got a look on his face like he'd just had an idea, and whatever it was, it made him laugh to himself. He put the blue crayon back to the paper and appeared to be drawing something – I couldn't see what. Then to my deep surprise, he retrieved the discarded yellow crayon from the floor and wrote something brief. When he was finished, I opened my mouth to speak but he shushed me and began folding the paper with intent. When he was done he held up the product of his labor, a little white swan, the blue writing faintly showing through from the inside, like all its thoughts were trapped inside its head wanting to come out. Then, Jonathan stuffed the swan inside the pocket of the bright orange inmate pajamas we all had to wear, and refused to tell me what any of this was all about.

"Things are happening, Tommy," was all he would say. "And we're gonna be ready for them." Then he did something completely unexpected, something he had never done before. He clapped his hand on my shoulder, and left it there for a moment. Then he stared at me contemplatively and just shook his head. "Really, Tommy, yellow? Really?"

I didn't have an answer for that. I'm not sure I understood what the question was.

By the time it was Lights Out, I was so exhausted from all the excitement and the louder than usual yammering the other inmates had been carrying on all day, I passed out right away. I didn't even bother to sing "Hush, Little Baby" first. Maybe that's why it was an uneasy sleep, full of unsettling dreams I can't remember, one morphing into another, into another, until it morphed into the one that goes like this: I'm on the ground alone in the dark with a pistol pointed at my head. I look up and see the towering figure of Harvey Dent, back from the dead, looking just as handsome and gruesome as he ever did, back to finish the job he started. I try to call out for the Boss to help me, but my voice won't work, and the Boss is too far away to hear my thoughts. "Heads, you live," Dent says, raising a coin in his other hand, "tails, you die…" I see nothing in the dark except for a flash of silver spinning in the air longer than physically possible. And then suddenly, this dream, which is as familiar to me as rain, adds a new detail. As I'm sitting there watching the coin, I'm no longer me. I'm Jonathan. Then the dream resumes as usual, like a needle being replaced on a skipping record. The coin lands in Dent's palm and he gives it a glance, doesn't tell me what it says, only gives me a cruel little half-smile and squeezes the trigger –

I was awakened in a cold sweat by the horrible sound of the intercom screeching to life. This wasn't right. The intercom never sounded after Lights Out, not until the Morning Announcements, and it was way too early for that. They always turned the lights on throughout the cells before the intercom came on for the Morning Announcements, and it was still pitch black. Plus, I didn't feel like I'd been asleep very long.

"A-hem-hem-hem. Attention all Crazies, Whack jobs, Nutters, and Cuckoo Birds," the voice on the intercom sang, sounding much higher-pitched than usual. "Oh, and Puddin', too. Hi, Puddin'! As you all know, earlier today I decided to take a leave of absence. But I thought I'd stop by one last time to say my goodbyes and bring you this very special announcement: Batman is gone, I repeat, BATMAN IS GONE. I hereby declare on all of Arkham, nay, on all of Gotham City, OPEN SEASON!"

There was a loud buzz, echoing throughout the entire asylum – all the doors sprang open and the lights turned on.

"The security system is down. All restricted areas have been unsealed. It's all yours, Puddin'. Go to town!"

And with another screech of static, the intercom was turned off and went dead.

Instantly I heard sounds in the corridor of inmates rushing out of their rooms, guards yelling, sounds of violence and riot.

"So," Jonathan said, "the nut finally cracked." He hopped down from the top bunk and eyed the open doorway. Outside, inmates were rushing past and brawling in the hallway with guards. "Well," he said, smiling. "Shall we?"

I folded my hands behind my head and leaned back on my pillow. "You go on ahead, if you want," I said. "I'm waiting for someone."

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow at me. "You're waiting. For someone." He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses used to rest when he was a doctor. "Tommy, do you have a play date arranged for this hour you didn't tell me about or something? Who the HELL could you possibly be waiting for?"

I stared at him like he was crazy. "Who else?" I said. "The Boss."

"The Boss…" he said, confused for a second. Then realization dawned on his face. "Your boss? The Joker? Tommy, Tommy, THINK for a minute! Why would the Joker come to get YOU? You haven't seen him in years!"

"The Boss and I are close," I said. "Very close. He wouldn't leave without me."

"Oh my God, Tommy, THINK! Even if the Joker wanted to get you, how the hell would he know which room you're in?"

"The Boss knows everything. He always has a plan. You don't know him like I do. He's coming to get me."

Jonathan threw his hands up in exasperation. "You're fucking worse than I thought. You know what? Fine. I'll wait here for your precious clown to show up. You're in luck. The Solitary Wing is located to our left. From there, the only way to reach an exit is to pass through this corridor. If Joker tries to make an escape, you'll see him. Then you can yell at him, 'Take me with you!' just like in the Goddam movies." He sat down on the floor opposite me with his back against the wall and shrugged his shoulders toward the riot rampaging outside. "Didn't feel like going out in that mess yet anyway, not till it dies down."

We could hear the guards screaming things like "Oh God, the tear gas, it's fake! It's been switched!" and "Walkies are dead! Network's out! Can't call for backup!" If Quinzel had been planning something like this to get her pudding out, she'd certainly had the manpower to rig things in our favor. From the sound of it, the guards were fighting a losing battle.

Jonathan watched from his vantage point on the floor, amused. He told me the plan seemed so well executed there was no way Quinzel could have done it by herself. He theorized that the League of Shadows was back and had their hands in this mess. I had no idea what he was talking about (surely this was all the work of the Boss), and ignored the ruckus outside. I just stared at the cot above me, trying to contain my excitement. After all these years, we would finally be reunited, the Boss and me. Then we'd have the run of Gotham… Suddenly, I wondered if Jonathan would want to come with us, too. I didn't think so. He didn't seem like the type to take orders from anybody else. He was his own boss, I realized. I had no idea what that felt like… and I didn't want to. The thought terrified me.

Inmates kept streaming past our doorway to the right. At one point, Jonathan flinched, and I looked up. "What, what? Was it the Boss?" I said, excited.

Jonathan swallowed visibly. "No…"

"Who was it, then?"

"Doesn't matter. Didn't see me," was all he'd say.

Then, suddenly, we heard someone fighting their way to the left, against the rush of streaming inmates. "Out of my way, bozos!" a voice yelled. "Watch out! Coming through!"

Jonathan darted to the doorway and grabbed the figure as it tried to pass. In he pulled Dr. Quinzel, only she didn't look like herself anymore. In place of the yellow knot she usually had her hair tied into were two long pigtails, still dripping wet with red and black dye. Her white, starched doctor's coat was gone – instead she bore a red-and-black get-up that reminded me of the checkerboards out in the Day Room. Instead of her brown briefcase, she carried a black messenger bag strapped across her chest. Most striking of all was the white greasepaint that covered her face – her lips coated in a midnight black instead of their usual red.

"Going somewhere, Harleen?" Jonathan sneered, his fingers twisting her arm.

"Back off, Birdie!" Quinzel yelled. "You don't get to touch me anymore, remember? I found a guy who's ten times the man you are, Scrawny!"

Jonathan went to smack Quinzel upside the head, but she blocked him and kneed him in the groin. He went down, groaning on the floor.

I sprang to Jonathan's side, kneeling on the ground, and tried to help him when suddenly we all became aware of another figure standing in the doorway.

From the corner of my eye I spotted him.

It was the Boss.

He had come for me! He had come, just like I knew he would!

The elation I felt was indescribable. Jonathan looked absolutely shocked, even as he was still reeling on the floor in pain, and I felt a surge of triumph. For all his psychological genius and his ability to read people like a book, I knew something he didn't. I knew the Boss in a way he never would.

The Boss took a step toward me and leaned down a little, reached a hand out to help me up. I started to reach for him when suddenly he darted his hand to the right and grabbed Quinzel's waist, pulled her in close to him, and stuck his tongue down her throat.

It felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I was shell-shocked, frozen on the floor next to Jonathan, as incapacitated as he was.

When the Boss finally let her go, Quinzel squealed. "I got the stuff you wanted, Puddin'!" She began opening her bag excitedly, pulling out little jars of face paint and screwing off the lids.

"Good girl, Harley," he said. The Boss dug his fingers into the goo and began smearing it all over his face.

"I was so worried, Puddin'!" Quinzel sobbed. "You were taking so long to meet up I had to come after you!"

"Nothing to worry about, Pumpkin Pie," the Boss drawled in that alternately high-pitched voice of his. "I just had to wait for all the other heavies to vacate Solitary first. Last thing I need is some nutjob sneaking up on me at the last second ruining my glorious moment of escape. Have you seen some of those headcases?"

"Unfortunately, daily," Quinzel replied, and the two of them started to laugh. It sounded horrible. I felt dizzy, like I was going to vomit. Just as the Boss was putting the finishing touches on his makeup, I seemed to find my voice again.

"Boss," I said weakly. "It's me."

For the first time since he entered the room, the Boss seemed to realize someone else was in there. His head turned and trapped me in his gaze. He didn't speak.

"It's Schiff, Thomas Schiff. Remember me? Oh God, you probably don't recognize me because of my nose. My old roommate busted my nose and it grew back crooked, you see, but if you just picture it, here, running straight, you'll see that it's me, Thomas. Thomas Schiff."

"Thomas-Thomas Schiff Who?"

"I – I – I was on the firing squad with you when we tried to shoot the Mayor, I was wearing the Rachel Dawes pin, Harvey Dent kidnapped me and he flipped a coin and he held a pistol to my head and the Batman showed up and – and – and I almost died for you!" I was shaking and gasping for breath by the time I finished this one long sentence.

"Ohhhhhhhh," the Boss said, a look of sympathy and realization starting to dawn on his face.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and added, "Doesn't ring a bell!"

The two of them erupted into peals of laughter before the Boss turned to Quinzel and clapped her behind. "Well, that was good. I needed a laugh. You ready to go, toots?"

"Sure thing, Boss!" she squeaked, and together they ran out the door, down the now-empty corridor, laughter trailing behind them, echoing in my head long after they had disappeared and taken all my hopes and dreams, my very existence, with them.

My arms and legs had turned to gelatin. I crawled wobbly to the foot of my cot and pulled myself up onto the mattress, found the covers blindly with my fingers and pulled them over my head, shutting the world out.

"Tommy," Jonathan finally said. I could hear him getting to his feet, making noises like he was still in some pain. "Tommy, what are you doing? We're free, Tommy. Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Can't."

"What do you mean can't?" He pulled the covers off my head and tugged on my arm. "Let's go, already, Tommy!"

"I said I CAN'T!" I snapped, pulling my arm out of his grip.

"I don't understand."

"No, you don't understand. You don't know what it's like. Out there, without the Boss, I'm nothing. I don't exist. God, I remember the first time I saw his face. That larger-than-life image. There was a man with a plan. That's what I need. Someone with a face I can follow."

Jonathan said nothing for a moment. Just reached up to his bunk and pulled down his pillow. "Oh, how easily I seem to forget…" Jonathan said, reaching into the pillowcase and pulling something lumpy out. He turned away from me and tugged it over his head, then revealed his face to me. "You've never met Scarecrow."

I looked up at him in awe: Scarecrow. I had heard of Jonathan's criminal persona, but I had never seen him. He wore a face, a soulless terrifying face from the depths of nightmares. A face that commanded respect and authority.

Finally it dawned on me. My life wasn't over. Not yet. "You can be the Boss," I whispered.

Jonathan smiled through the seams in his mouth and held his hand out to me. "I can be the Boss."

I grasped it, and he pulled me up, set me free. "Where did you get it?" I wondered, touching his new face in awe.

"Remember that day I got the visitor, I told you we bribed a guard to smuggle something in? Well, it was that, along with this…" He pulled off his face and turned it inside out, revealed a small, hidden seam on the inside, and tore it open with his teeth. He held up the prize inside, a small, gray, unmarked spray canister, couldn't have been more than two inches.

"What's in it?"

"Fear toxin," Jonathan said. "Enough to dose one person. Just in case we run into any difficulties. Couldn't risk sneaking in anything larger. You see, Tommy, in here we're weak, powerless. But outside, I have whole storehouses full of fear toxin, enough to bring Gotham to its knees."

"I can still... I can still watch the world burn."

"You can watch the world scream."

I practically salivated at the thought. Jonathan tucked the canister into one of his pockets and pulled his face back on.

"Let's go."

I followed him halfway out the door, then stopped short. "Wait, I almost forgot!" I said running back to my bunk.

"What, you leave the oven on or something?"

I reached under my mattress and pulled out my journal, made sure the pencil was still stuck safely in its coils.

"Oh yeah, that notebook you're always scribbling in," Jonathan said, grabbing it from me. He flipped through a few pages, laughed lightly, and handed it back, shaking his head and muttering something about nonsensical gibberish. I have no idea what he was talking about. I tucked my shirt into my pants and dropped my journal down the back of my shirt for safekeeping. I didn't want to lose it, no matter what we faced. Jonathan looked thoroughly amused. "Okay, Shakespeare, you ready to go?"

I was.

Ready for freedom.

Ready to make the world pay.


	5. Chapter 5

I had waited so long to have the Boss back in my life, and now I had him – no longer the Joker – but still the Boss. Jonathan was my Boss, and I would follow him wherever he would go. He had once told me he had plans, big plans, for Gotham. And I would help him carry them out. But first we had to make it out of Arkham.

We stepped out of our cell and made it to the end of the empty corridor without event. The guard that usually kept watch at the end was gone, and the door swung open easily under our touch.

Outside it, in the Day Room, some semblance of the riot was still going on. Inmates were swarming around guards, tearing apart everything in sight, even taking the opportunity to fight each other. Tables had been smashed and couches were torn open. A few of the guards had fallen – the more unfortunate ones literally being torn apart just like another piece of furniture by some of the testier inmates.

I froze in panic when I saw the turmoil, not knowing what to do. It was completely overwhelming, attacking all my senses.

Jonathan grabbed my arm, spoke to me from beneath the Scarecrow mask with a steely blue gaze, full of authority. "Let's cut through the cafeteria. Make our way to the staff kitchen – I don't think anyone would think to go out that way. We can make a clean exit through the delivery bay where the trucks haul in the food supplies. Maybe we can even hotwire one and drive out of here. If Quinzel did her job right, the gate should be up for us. We'll head to the river and cross the bridge from the Narrows into Gotham. C'mon."

I could barely process all this information before Jonathan pulled me through the Day Room, navigating around all the ensuing chaos in a way that I never could, though he was moving kind of funny, as though he was in some pain. He led me toward the cafeteria and pulled the door open. It shut behind us with a clang, blocking the sounds of the scuffle out. The cafeteria was completely deserted.

Jonathan rested his hands on his knees, and groaned a little, trying to catch his breath.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, just sore from that trick Quinzel pulled. C'mon."

Jonathan led the way through the tables toward the staff kitchen in the back. I had never seen the cafeteria empty like that before. It was eerie.

"What did I tell you?" Jonathan's voice almost seemed to echo across the walls. "Didn't think any of those crazies would be smart enough to make their way out through here. Bastards are heading for the Main Entry, where all the guards are no doubt waiting for them…"

Suddenly a hand reached out from under one of the tables, grabbed Jonathan's ankle and pulled him to the floor. The back of his head hit the linoleum with a slap. "Not all the guards," a sickeningly familiar voice said.

Out slithered the Blond Guard, looking like he'd been through Hell. His left eye was bruised shut, and the entire left side of his face was purple and swollen and bloody. Someone had had a good time with him.

"Nobody move," he said, pulling out a gun and pointing it at me.

"Oh God," I whispered, falling to my knees. It wasn't the Blond Guard anymore. It was Harvey Dent, back from the dead. Harvey Dent, back to finish the job.

Dent tackled me, pushed my face to the floor, got one of my arms behind my back as I struggled, on the verge of tears with fear.

"It's not Dent!" Jonathan screamed. "There's nothing to be afraid of! It's not Dent!"

I felt the gun being pushed to the back of my head. "Now stay down, Schiff…" Dent said. "You too, Crane! Down on the ground, hands behind your head, NOW!" He sounded like a man on the edge. I could hear him pulling out a pair of handcuffs. "Already dealt with one lunatic today. Don't know why he didn't finish me off, but I'm not taking any more chances. If either of you makes a sudden move, I swear to you I will shoot and I aim to kill!"

I whimpered, helpless. I would never be free. Never be free of Arkham. Trapped forever behind these walls with Harvey Dent, the man I feared most, as my captor.

"Dammit, Tommy, catch!"

Jonathan threw something at me as Dent fired off a shot at him. I tried to catch it but it slipped through my fingers, clattering across the linoleum.

The canister of fear toxin!

Jonathan screamed out in pain, and I looked up. He was gasping and clutching a bloody arm.

"Spray him, Tommy!" he screeched, deranged. "SPRAY HIM LIKE A BUG!"

I grabbed the canister and flipped around just as Dent aimed the gun at my forehead.

Bzzzzt! The canister emitted a huge stream of grey smoke right in Dent's face, and he fell over backwards as he pulled the trigger, screaming.

The sound of the gunshot stunned me so badly I dropped the canister to the floor. For a few seconds I tried to figure out where I had been hit, until I realized the shot had gone off into the ceiling. The impact of the fear toxin had made Dent jerk his gun upward at the last second.

I rose unsteadily to my feet, and Dent cowered before me, shielding himself with the gun and crying like a baby. "No, no, don't hurt me…" he wailed pathetically, backing away on all fours. Finally he managed to get up and ran screaming for his life out of the cafeteria and into the Day Room. The door swung shut behind him.

I ran to Jonathan's side on the floor.

He was still wearing his mask, but I could see by his eyes he was in a lot of pain. The first gunshot had hit him in his upper arm, which was bleeding profusely. "Tear off my sleeve, would ya…" he said, and directed me in bandaging the wound. I wrapped the orange sleeve around and around his arm until the blood was held back, and tied it off. "This will have to hold till we're on the outside," he said wearily.

"We're lucky to be alive," I said. I went to retrieve the fear toxin canister and held it up. "Good thing you had this."

"It's empty now, remember? Go ahead, try it."

I pointed it away from my face and pressed the nozzle. Nothing came out.

"Only enough for one dose," Jonathan said. "But one dose was enough. Made you feel powerful, didn't it?"

I looked at him wide-eyed and nodded. He was right. I had felt powerful.

"Get used to the feeling. There's plenty more where that came from once we're outta here. The mind has power over the body. Remember that. Any fears that you have are all in your head. They can't stop you." He held his good arm out to me, and I was able to get him to his feet, holding him up with his uninjured arm around my shoulder. We were both exhausted, and for a while we just stood there staring at each other, trying to catch our breath. Suddenly, a change came over Jonathan's blue eyes.

"Hey, wait a minute," he said, concerned. "You're hurt…"

"I'm hurt?"

"Yeah, there's something wrong with your face. Let me see…" He raised a hand to examine the length of my nose and examined it from all angles.

"Nope, I was wrong, still crooked."

He gave me two quick pats on the cheek. "You're good. Off we go," he said and headed for the kitchen.

I laughed in spite of myself. Jonathan always knows how to make me laugh.

Even after being shot, his sense of humor had quickly returned and he sounded optimistic. He even seemed to walk with a swagger. That was the confidence he had and I lacked. That was my Boss.

The kitchen door, normally restricted by a Staff Only access keypad, fell open at Jonathan's touch and swung closed behind him. For a few moments I just stood there in awe of his resilience, and then hurried to follow.

When I walked through the door, I saw him standing in the middle of the room, frozen next to a table covered with various cooking utensils, spatulas, baking pans and a rolling pin.

Then I noticed the other figure in the room, the one with his back to us, fingering a set of long butcher's knives hanging against the back wall, blocking the exit to the delivery bay. There were scars on the back of his neck, raised slashes in groups of five resembling tally marks, deliberately made. I knew those scars well. Slowly the man turned around to view us, and the wicked joy that spread across his face was only equaled by my terror.

"Well, isn't this just delicious," Victor Zsaz said. "If it isn't my old roommate, Thomas Schiff, you annoying little fuck. You look great, by the way. Looove the nose," he said maliciously. I clutched at it unconsciously, could feel the punch that he had landed all those years ago that had bent it out of shape. "I been locked up in Solitary for the past six years because of you, always singing your stupid little songs. And who's your friend supposed to be – Mr. Potato Head?"

I had broken into a cold sweat. When we were cellmates, Zsaz had always ranted and raved about the people who'd done him wrong. But Zsaz had never seen the Scarecrow mask, I realized. I could keep Jonathan safe! All I had to do was warn him without revealing his identity to Zsaz. "D-don't say anything, Boss…" I pleaded.

"Quiet, Tommy. I'll take care of this. You stay away from him, Zsaz," Jonathan threatened. "I'm warning you."

"Wait, I know that voice…" Zsaz said, and he let out a brief, unhinged laugh. "Why, my old psychiatrist Doctor Crane! It's you, isn't it? And here I thought my fun was cut short when I heard the guard run away… You know, the two of you spoiled a very big catch for me just now. I was gonna flay that sucker and fry him like a fish. I went through all the trouble of knocking him out when I could've just taken his gun and shot him. But I wanted to have a little fun… see what tools the kitchen had to offer..." Zsaz pulled a long, thin butcher's knife from the wall, and started walking slowly toward Jonathan.

"I been waiting a long time for this, Crane. You're the reason I got holed up in this joint in the first place. And it was your toxin unleashed got me committed for good. But you know, the effects of the toxin wore off a looong time ago, and that wimpy little mask of yours ain't gonna scare me."

I scrambled to Jonathan's side. He was the Boss. I was the lackey, the henchman, the underling. That's what I had always been. Jonathan had already taken a bullet for me. If anyone was going down, it was going to be me. I would throw myself at Zsaz, give Jonathan time to escape.

"Get out of here, Boss…" I said.

"Back away, Tommy. That's an order," Jonathan snapped at me, never taking his eyes off Zsaz. He had never sounded so demanding, so cold.

"I won't," I whispered as Zsaz moved closer.

"I SAID BACK THE FUCK AWAY!" Jonathan turned towards me and pushed me aside with both hands as hard as he could. I stumbled backward and fell to the ground a few feet away. Zsaz used the opportunity to lunge. I was flat on my back and didn't see what happened. When I raised my head, Zsaz's back was to me and he was raising a bloody knife in the air to strike again.

I caught my arm around his neck before he could land the second blow. The knife clattered to the floor, and he fell back onto me as I gripped him in a choke hold, squeezing his throat with all of my strength, with strength I didn't even know that I had. Zsaz struggled against me but I was in the throes of complete and utter madness. He had tried to hurt the Boss! All I could see was a blinding redness like blood was dripping into my eyes. Jonathan's blood. I gripped tighter and tighter. Zsaz's face went red, then blue… his body struggling against me became weaker and weaker until finally… it went limp. I wasn't sure if he was dead or just unconscious, so I grabbed a wooden rolling pin off the closest table and decided to do a little cosmetic surgery. The rolling pin made a nice thwack sound, and, though it got a little messy, I thought the procedure was a complete success. Zsaz looked much better without that pesky nose in the way, smashed to pieces. In fact, most of his face was a pulpy mess. I considered it a huge improvement.

Suddenly the sound of Jonathan gasping for air broke through my madness and I came to my senses, dropped the pin, heard it clatter to the floor and roll away.

I ran to Jonathan's side. He was shaking and making loud choking noises like he couldn't get any air in through his mask. I pulled it off to help him breathe and cried out at the sight. There was an ugly gash along his throat. The heavy burlap fabric of the mask had probably dulled the impact of Zsaz's blade a bit, but nonetheless, blood poured down the back of his neck and along his chest. I grabbed a dish rag from a nearby table and pressed it to his throat, trying to stanch the flow. Jonathan looked up at me, wide-eyed, frightened. That terrified me. I had never seen him so afraid before. He couldn't speak. He merely placed one hand over mine, then with the other took something out of his pocket. It was the origami swan he had made after Dr. Hawkins had announced Quinzel's leave of absence. He held it up to me until I took it, then let his hand fall. He looked at me and mouthed one word – Fly – then squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body struggling, jerking against the pain that contorted his beautiful face.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I couldn't bear to see him in so much agony.

Then I remembered. There was one thing that had never failed to make Jonathan fall asleep peacefully.

I forced back my tears and began to sing.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird… and if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring…"

I think Jonathan could hear me. Slowly his clenched jaw began to relax…

"And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass… and if that looking glass gets broke, Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat…"

The furrows in his brow became smoother…

"And if that billy goat doesn't pull, Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull…"

Jonathan's body began to stop struggling, as though all the tension and pain were leaving his body…

"And if that cart and bull turn over, Mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover…"

I choked back a sob and pushed my way through the final verse.

"And if that dog named Rover won't bark, Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart… and if that horse and cart fall down…" Here my voice faltered. "Fall down… Well, you'll still be the sweetest baby in town."

The song was over.

Jonathan was dead.

I didn't know what to do.

There was no Boss left to tell me what to do.

For a long time, I just clutched his body to me and cried, my tears falling onto his face, down his cheeks until he looked like he was crying, too.

I laid down next to him and closed my eyes. I was scared, so scared. I wanted to die, too. It is one thing to be terrified when a gun is pointed at your head – it is another thing to be completely and utterly alone, in despair. The latter is much more frightening.

But who knew how long before Arkham would be invaded by police, before we straggler inmates would be rounded up like cattle and stuck in our pens again?

If I was ever going to be free, now was my only chance. I would have to mourn Jonathan later. I must escape. But how? How could I even move?

The mind has power over the body, Jonathan had said. Any fears that you have are all in your head. They can't stop you.

I forced myself to sit up, to take action. Vaguely I remembered Jonathan's instructions, as though from years ago: Exit through the delivery bay. Find a truck. Head for the river.

But could I leave Jonathan there, leave his body to rot in Arkham forever?

No. His freedom would not be denied him. He would get it one way or another.

Frantically I looked around the kitchen until I found it, in the corner, a hand cart dolly with a long flat bed, used to push heavy supplies from the delivery bay into the kitchen. I carefully placed the origami swan in one of my pockets so as not to crush it, and stuffed Jonathan's mask in the other. Then I took the dolly, placed Jonathan's body on it, and covered his face and chest with a long kitchen towel. I pushed him through the huge double doors of the delivery bay, and we were outside, though within the confines of Arkham's gate. It was dark still, and there was a row of trucks parked against the building. In the very last one I found the keys in the ignition and nearly cried with relief. I didn't know how to hotwire a truck like Jonathan had planned to do. I placed his body carefully in the back, climbed into the driver's seat, and held my breath. Turned the keys in the ignition. It sprang to life. Slowly I let all the air in my lungs out. I was nearly free.

The guard who worked the gate was gone. Either paid off or killed or who knows what. The gate was open just like Jonathan had predicted it would be. I passed through it and felt part of a huge weight fall off my back, but I wasn't soaring yet.

I stood on top of the empty bridge leading into Gotham. The river was loud as it rushed past beneath my feet. I had taken a cinderblock from an alley and used a hose that had been hanging against the side of a building to tie it to Jonathan's body. I felt like a common thug doing it, but I couldn't stand the thought of Jonathan's body washing up on shore someday, being discovered by cops and taken to a morgue where he'd be locked up again.

I had lifted Jonathan's body up onto the wide railing of the bridge underneath a street lamp. I looked into his face one last time, kissed his head once, and pushed him over the side. For a second he looked like he was flying. Then he hit the water and disappeared into the darkness.

For a long time I just stood there listening to the sound of the river rushing past. Then absentmindedly I stuck my hands in my pockets and found the only mementos of Jonathan I had – the origami swan and the mask. The mask I left where it was. The swan I pulled out and unfolded. Written in blue crayon on its white body was a host of notes: Directions to the storehouses of fear toxin, the location of his emergency funds, contact information for his spies, and even the recipe for the fear toxin spray.

At the very bottom was the only personal note written, one that made me choke, and also there was a picture.

The note read, "Remember, Tommy, you're the Boss now."

Beside it was a doodle of a little bluebird flying away with a smile on its beak. There was a blue word balloon issuing from its mouth, with yellow text inside, the only part of the entire message that was written in yellow crayon. I had trouble deciphering the text – the light yellow was really hard to make out against the white background of the paper.

Finally I realized what the bluebird said.

"P.S. C Y yellow is useless?"

I chuckled through my tears. I got it now.

Jonathan always knows how to make me laugh.

When Dr. Quinzel's leave of absence had been announced, Jonathan had realized that something was up. Something big at Arkham was about to go down, and he knew that he might not survive it. He had cared enough for me to make sure that I would be okay without him.

Jonathan had given me so many gifts. He had given me laughter. He had given me freedom.

Most of all, he had believed in me.

'Why do we fall?' I thought, looking down into the river and wiping my tears.

Then I took out the mask and pulled on my new face.

How do we fly?

**The End**


End file.
